


Love Dissembles Itself as Landscape

by yossarianlives



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, a big long lydia backstory i love to see it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:34:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yossarianlives/pseuds/yossarianlives
Summary: It's a long, hard road to the top.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Love Dissembles Itself as Landscape

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "The Lost Land" by Eavan Boland.

Get inside. Food’s ready.

You hear Margaret shout from the front door, but you’re not listening. You’re staring at the lone tufts of grass that populate what should’ve been a lawn, but is now reduced to a cracked, dusty patch of dried, packed clay. Normally, it’s hideousness would bother you, you’d be trying not to get dirt on your shoes, walking slowly so as not to kick up dust from the friction of your rubber-soled sneakers on the ground. But in this moment, all you can do is stare. Your housekeeper, Hilde, should be yelling down the hall at you that the casserole she slaved over half the day is ready, not Margaret. You should be getting up from the piano, after your daily two hours of practice, not sitting at a rusted swing in a run down neighbourhood. But you are. You get up and go back inside.

The group home’s kitchen table isn’t large enough to accommodate the fifteen children who live there, so naturally, some of you have to stand. You are standing today, for being late, missing your chance to get a spot on the hardwood bench. The noise of this house is something you don’t think you’ll ever get used to, the kids here rowdier and more boisterous than you’ve ever encountered. You’re standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the lunch room, eating spaghetti out of a red plastic bowl, wondering if you’ll ever feel like you’re not in the way.

*

You were pulled out of class when the school received the news.

Fatal. Both dead. One in a million accident. Tragic. 

You were never close with your mother and father. Your father was absent, mostly, a stockbroker who was either never home until late, or away on various business trips multiple times per month. Most of your impression of the man was constructed from the hissed arguments between him and your mother when you were supposed to be asleep, her drunken tones punctuated by his clipped responses. He regarded you with a passing interest, as if you were merely a feature of the house, or a stray cat to be petted and given a saucer of milk every once in a while.

Your mother played the part of the housewife in extremes, from baking cookies and making dinner every night with an almost chauvinist dedication, to spending the days secluded in the master bedroom with migraines, self-prescribing medicinal gin. Seeing your mother out of her room during the day became rarer and rarer after she had hired Hilde, an Austrian housekeeper, to keep the place in order. She was a tall, yet stout woman, no nonsense, but with a kind heart. You missed her even as an adult.

You were used to being neither heard nor seen, and so the news that your parents had died was not as much of a shock to your ten year old system as one would have expected. Life has a strange way about it, Hilde always said, who had gone back to Austria after the funeral. Your mother was estranged from her family, trailer trash from Kentucky, who simply would not have been legally permitted by CPS to raise a child, even had they expressed the want. Your father was an only child with two late parents. The swiftness with which your circumstances changed were astonishing. You moved from a city centre private prep school, to the local junior high, and left the house you grew up in to share a bedroom with a pretty girl named Shana whose parents were now in prison for committing tax fraud.

You finish your spaghetti and go upstairs. Seven box-shaped bedrooms line the hallway, three to a room, two in your case. The house (the social workers had long since given up in trying to get you to refer to it as your home) has an aloof atmosphere. The cracked, aquamarine linoleum in the bathroom has collected the grime of hundreds of children before you, the banisters on the stairs brushed smooth by the countless hands travelling up and down it every day. The other occupants are, for all intents and purposes, strangers. A loose collection of faces you see at breakfast and lunch, brush past in the hallway, no more friends than strangers on the subway. 

The other girls your age are already obsessing over make-up and boys, sitting on Shana’s bed and giving each other rouge lips and long lashes. It’s not that you particularly dislike these girls, or their fondness for cosmetics - in fact, you think they look very pretty, and faintly long to be included. It’s just that they are unused to someone as quiet as yourself. You had always felt somewhat separated from everyone in your life, and they are no different. All of you retreat into the idea of what the other thinks. You, a quiet “bookworm”, them, savvy and pretty. 

You play the role convincingly, and grab the worn copy of _Wuthering Heights_ from your nightstand, despite having no intention of reading it. You find the whole thing to be tiresome, overly dramatised, and are going to return it to the library. What you’re really interested in was waiting for you there. Michelle Laois’ The Right Stuff: Ten Foolproof Ways To Grow Your Business Internationally.

You didn’t come out of the womb with a subscription to the Financial Times, of course. A burgeoning interest in all things commerce had blossomed after picking up a discarded “Explaining Economics” pamphlet in the school library, tired of dusty classics. You remember being placed in charge of an annual fundraising event, selling raffle tickets outside a school football game. You ruled the operation with an iron fist, organising with efficiency, all in all raising an unprecedented amount of money. From then on, you were voracious in your quest for knowledge, which had led you to the public library, it's dark timber shelving units and pervading musty smell a reprieve from the uncertainty and discomfort of the group home. There was no pretending, no trying to stay out of everyone’s way at the library. Well, you would not conduct yourself like that, not anymore. Michelle Laois advised in Being the Boss: Success as a Woman In Business to square your shoulders, look people in the eye, and to enunciate clearly what you want.

Years later when the time came for college applications, you were secure in your path.

*

You’re twenty one, in your third year majoring in Operations Management and Business Analytics in UMD. At 18, you were given access to what your parents had left you in their will, enough to get you through college comfortably. You’ll likely go straight into the workforce, sans the typical shitty job-juggling, cheap ramen-infused experience typical of a student. Not that your heart bleeds for what you may be “missing out” on. You much prefer to run things, be in charge. Control suits you. You are here for one thing and one thing only - to get your degree. You can’t fathom the pointlessness of endeavouring to come to college only to wake up hungover at noon three days a week out of seven. 

“Uptight” and “Stuck up bitch” are, as a result of your disposition, words that get thrown around by your male classmates quite a lot. You rise above it, these boys playing at being students are of no conceivable annoyance to you outside of empty jeers and vulgarity. You repeatedly test at the top of your class.

You are walking back from the library when you see a group of people milling around outside the main entrance, signs and leaflets in hand, passing them out to anybody polite enough not to pretend they didn’t hear them. The Gay Liberation Society was something you routinely observed from a distance. You were no shrinking violet when it came to your preferences. Your attraction and admiration for women had made itself known many times, but you never acted on it. Not because of some ridiculous, illogical shame, but lo and behold, Lydia Rodarte-Quayle was simply too shy.

It’s not as if you had a reputation for being loud and outgoing, quite the opposite, but it was this particular situation that made your stomach do somersaults and your palms go clammy. Truth be told, it somewhat irritated you. You were proud of your professionalism, your ability to focus with potent intensity on your goals. This was new. It was something you could not prepare for or control. It was confusing and exciting and terrifying. The thought of even speaking to one of the punk, pierced and colourful-haired girls holding a _Pride_ rainbow sign made you want to turn and go home. You’re grappling with these thoughts and you don’t even notice when one approaches you, asking if you’d like a leaflet. She holds it out, chewing her gum and smiling, and you take it wordlessly, continuing on your way.

*

You finally cave and go to one of the events. It’s a fundraising brunch, held in a local “Mom and Pop” type establishment. You remember feeling nauseous for hours before, knots in your stomach. You remember how all of it disappeared when she said hello to you, welcoming you, taking your coat.

Christine was her name. You recollect her handing you the leaflet that evening on the way back from the library. She’s a whirlwind of energy, smiles and good vibrations. Her honey coloured hair is cut in layers, with half of her head shaved into a buzzcut. You think you’d most likely look like a lunatic if you tried something like that with your hair. She smiles at you and neural synapses all over your body electrify. You don’t remember much of the brunch after that.

She is your first. Everything - first love, first kiss, first date. She’s an art student, living off-campus in a draughty loft, with her mad-cap group of theatre friends, drag queens, and a revolving door cast of characters coming in and out during the day. To say you feel out of your depth was a gross understatement. Anyone would bet that it should have dredged up memories of that miserable group home, but miraculously, you feel the most comfortable you’ve felt in years. 

Weeks give way to months, to semesters, until you’re turning 23, and Christine is crabby after pulling two all-nighters to finish her final project. You’ve got a job lined up already, your professors sing your praises and the conglomerates come calling. Madrigal Electromotive, GmbH. You’ve got an interview with them in a week. Completely courtesy, Professor Bell assures you. The job is practically gift wrapped for you, she says, proudly.

You took the liberty of doing some pre-emptive research about the company. German. 26,000 employees. A highly diversified assembly of many different branches, everything from shipping to industrial equipment to hospitality. You can see why they desire your skillset.

Christine envelops you from behind, sighing. She’d had to work on the double - although her commissions were playing second fiddle to her increasingly urgent project deadline, they were what kept the lights on in the loft. You turn and your mouth connects with hers, and the world is blissful, perfect. The feel of her arms around you is divine, it could rival the highs of the cocaine your classmates snort in the bathrooms of the local student night. You might love her.

*

Your interview is in 10 minutes. You're sitting outside an office in Madrigal’s Baltimore branch. You can feel how expensive the leather of your seat is, the crystal in the chandeliers overhead is subtle and dignified. You are suited up for the occasion, a tailored navy skirt and blazer set, linen blouse, Louboutins you’d splurged on for exactly this reason. Dress for the job you want, and whatnot. The glass of the full wall window gives way to the city’s skyline, and you daydream of a corner office overlooking it. The assistant calls you in.

*

Houston, Texas.

The job requires a move to Houston, Texas.

You don’t give it any thought, and graciously accept the offer, the future gleaming in front of you. It was only six yards from Christine’s loft that you remember. What was going to happen now? Would she want to uproot her life and accompany you? Would she insist on one of those idiotic “long distance” relationships that always seemed to crash and burn within the first month? You wrack your brain thinking of a suitable protocol for a situation like this. 

You decide to come straight out with it. Needless to say, Christine does not share your jubilance for the lucrative offer of moving halfway across the country. It's ugly. Tears fall, yells are heard, doors are slammed. 

You’re not being supportive, you said.

 _You’re_ not being supportive, she said.

You can’t expect me to just, what, drop everything? Move to Texas, leave all my customers behind, my friends, my family. They’re important to me too.

Underneath it was the unspoken _It’s different for you. You have no family. You only have your job._

You voice this, and she falters, unable to disguise her pause in contradicting you. It’s all you need. Your face is wet, makeup running, tears streaming down your face as you leave her apartment, ashamed at the state you’d let yourself get into. You feel weak. You hate the feeling. Angry, guttural sobs fill your student accommodation bedroom.

*

Madrigal Electromotive, Houston is the cure to your heartache. The staunchly professional environment nearly makes you giddy. There are no snarky coworkers, leering associates. Everyone understands what they are here for. There is simply no time for tiresome office politics, the German efficiency and punctuality translating exceedingly well. You rise through the ranks with ease, and a Platinum Award for Outstanding Leadership In Business takes pride of place in your office. Madrigal could not function without you. You are invigorated, energised by your achievement. You’ve accomplished all you’ve set out to do. 

It’s a cold and dry January morning when the letter arrives. You are ready for work, enjoying a Lemongrass and Manuka Honey infusion when the mailman slides it through the door. You weren’t expecting anything this week, and if it was something to do with work it wouldn’t be sent to your home.

The envelope is ivory, bent slightly from transit. You see a New York return address, which puzzles you. You don’t know anyone from there, at least not well enough they’d have your address. You open it and take out an ornate invite to a showing at the David Zwirner Gallery, Soho. You nearly drop the letter when you read who sent it.

_Maybe I’ll see you there?_

_Love, C._

“Love, C”

Who did she think she was? Was she under some strange illusion that an invite to a gallery show would smooth things over, after six years of virtually no contact? You feel angry. Who was she to be so cavalier about the whole affair? Long repressed emotion wells up inside you, drowning out the anger and you let out a sigh. Under it all, you still love her. Still miss her. You’d given her your address wordlessly before you left for Houston, and never received anything until now. You think about it all the way to work. Two hours later, you tell your secretary to book you a flight to New York.

*

The David Zwirner Gallery is thronged with people.

You are standing outside, holding your invite. New York is gritty and coarse, different to the curt politeness you are used to. You weren’t entirely sure how to dress for the occasion, remembering Christine’s eclectic group of art school cohorts. You decide on a simple, fitted black dress, a dark work blazer sitting over it. Your hair is in a simple updo, classic and refined, just like Michelle Laois would have advised. 

Walking in, you grossly underestimated how out of place you are. Everywhere you look is a mass of diverse fabric choice and patterns, people in the crowd merging to form a vibrant, pulsing mass of colour. You worry that you look like someone’s mother, taken a wrong turn on the way to an Olive Garden christening dinner. The event is well underway, and you don’t know whether to feel relief or unease at the fact that there’s no sign of Christine. 

You start to walk around, cradling your complimentary champagne and gazing at the artwork. They are, for the most part, abstract interpretations of the female form - a hip there, breast here - but co-mingled together in an alluring, hypnotic fashion. You come to a change in subject, a harbour by night, beams of moonlight sparkling on the surface of the water. Vague shapes can be seen to the sides, presumably boats, but it is clear the focus is on the water.

It’s almost like she was entranced, a voice says from beside you.

You turn and see a tall, bearded man, staring at the same painting. He’s broad shouldered, wearing a suit of gray wool, a flat cap perched on top of his head. He turns to look at you, and you nod, having nothing to add.

You know Christine? he asks, and if he was watching incredibly close, he might have noticed you bristle as he mentioned her name.

Yes, you answer, pausing. An old friend, you decide on. 

He nods and you are sure you feel him eyeing your legs, no matter how discreet he thinks he’s being.

I’m Derek, he says, and you are too kind to say you don’t care, too busy trying to manage the tremble in your voice.

Lydia, you answer, extending a hand out. His hand is warm, solid, his palms rough.

You chat aimlessly for a few minutes until you hear her. She always had a way of being heard before being seen, and you turn from the painting of the water.

Lydia! I see you’ve met Derek, she beams. She’s dressed in a tartan kilt-like dress, a long, orange cape of silk draped around her shoulders. Her hair is in the same half-shaved style, but is now dyed jet black. She brings you close, hugging you and kissing you on the cheek. You are still frozen in shock, like you’ve seen a ghost come back to life. A lump in your throat forms, and you curse yourself for breaking this fast. You smile. It’s the only thing you can think to do, and she smiles back. You hold each other’s gazes for a moment, until she is pulling another woman into the awkward circle of you and her lost in each other, and Derek looking on. 

I’d like you to meet Suzi, my partner.

My partner. 

My partner.

My partner my partner my partner my partner my partner my partner my partner my partner my partn

Your mind races trying to decipher the meaning of what she’s just said, even though you know damn well what she meant, from the way her hand lingers on Suzi’s hip, to the closeness with which they stand next to each other. Really, what did you think was going to happen? Hey Lydia, I’ll invite you out to New York after six years of silence, you can come to my art show, I’ll show you some abstract fucking lesbian art, and we can live happily ever after, just like old times? Of course this was to show you how things have moved on, she’s happy without you. _You needed her more than she needed you._

You stand there innocuously, answering questions about Houston and Madrigal, as if they weren’t the wedge that drove you apart all those years ago. You smile, Derek makes jokes, Christine and Suzi laugh. After half an hour of pleasantries, you make some excuse about flights back to Texas for work, and Christine hugs you again, making vague platitudes about “keeping in touch” that you both know will never last. It’s too painful. Whether this was a heavy, hurtful display at how she’s moved on without you, or clumsy and emotionally ignorant way of extending an olive branch, you don’t know. You just have to get out of here. 

You go to the gallery bathrooms, lock yourself in a cubicle and scream into the crook of your arm. 

*

You haven’t smoked in years, and yet here you are, standing outside an art gallery in Manhattan, puffing into the street. The nicotine relieves some of the stress from your shoulders, but the tack of humiliation lingers in your memory.

Got a light? 

It's Derek, his flat cap gone and curls sticking out erratically. 

You hand him your lighter and he lights up, your shared streams of smoke blending in the night air. 

You’re not staying? you ask, and he shakes his head.

Yeah, about that. You mentioned you were heading back to the Governor? I’m actually staying there too, and I was wondering if I could catch a ride with you?

A ride. Starving artists indeed.

If you’re propositioning me, you could have come right out and asked, you say, tired of him already.

He blushes. Well, if that’s on the table then-

You don’t wait for him to finish, stubbing out your cigarette and flagging down a cab.

*

The sex is the most profoundly sad thing you’ve ever been witness to.

He is your first male sexual partner. There were a few aborted affairs after Christine, nothing meaningful, but at least they understood the biological properties of the female body, for Christ’s sake. You are beginning to regret this botched attempt at revenge sex. “You’re over me Christine, so I’ll fuck one of your art cronies to show you I’m over you too!” You despair at what you had let yourself come to.

And come you do not. It’s over before it starts. A few pathetic missionary thrusts, some kissing of your neck, and he is a grunting, sweaty mess on top of you. You fear that this man has no idea what a clitoris is, let alone be able to point to it on a diagram. You kick him out with little fanfare, and bring yourself to orgasm in the bathroom, imagining soft lips where your fingers touch.

*

It’s four weeks later when you notice something is off.

Your period is late, and you chalk it down to stress, though things weren’t particularly hectic at the moment. Still, it would be understandable that a working woman in a high-powered position such as yourself might encounter these things once in a while. You put it out of your mind until the nausea starts.

You're heaving over the toilet, the Italian marble tiles creating searing patches of cold on your knees. It's 6:49, and you should be well on your way to work, but your Audi sits idle outside and the silk of your vermilion negligee sticks to your back with sweat. Your head is spinning, your mouth is a barren desert, and it's all you can do to make your way to your Blackberry and call in sick, for the first time in 6 years. 

An overwhelming rush of panic rises in you at the thought of leaving Madrigal unsupervised, but you are soon distracted by your viscous bile hitting the toilet bowl, and you close your bloodshot eyes. 

*

A simple case of the condom rupturing, the lady at the women's clinic tells you. It's exceedingly rare, but known to happen. Either a piece of good luck, or a piece of bad luck, she says. You are undecided.

You let on it was a sperm donor. Something you'd been planning, yes. Oh, you kept that one quiet all right. You smile politely at cooing coworkers, asking when you're due, if you've thought of any names. You keep it vague, having barely enough time to think that far ahead, wrapped up in simply processing what had happened. One in a million. You doubted Derek would want to know, if that was even his real name. It's easy to curtly detach him from these proceedings, a stranger you once spent no more than 3 hours in the company of, nothing more. 

It's a steep learning curve, you find out, wading through pregnancy magazines and perching on plastic seats at the back of mommy groups, still trying to connect yourself to what was happening in your body. You of course, had considered abortion, as any woman in your position might. Upon reflection, you realised that your job was in no danger, and struggled to come up with a reason to go ahead with it. You had the money and the means, for god's sake. It was the fear that gripped you. You wondered if maternity would suit you. You had enjoyed only the company of adults for quite some time now, and wondered if you could care for a dependent the way they would deserve. 

She is the centre of the universe from the moment you lay eyes on her. 

The labour was hard, and gruelling, and painful, yes, but when you see her, when she is handed to you swaddled, the sweat soaked hospital sheets could've been a heavenly cloud for all you were concerned. She is angelic, a pretty little face with wisps of dark hair on the crown of her head. A rush of love blossoms in your chest holding her, delicate yet, ferocious, and you know you would burn the world to the ground for her.

Kiira - it’s Finnish, with a sophisticated, sleek quality you are drawn to. Kiira will not grow up in a group home. Kiira will never feel invisible to her own family. Kiira is a Rodarte-Quayle. 

*

You’ve only just rung in 1999 in the Houston Four Seasons conference room when Peter Schuler from Hospitality whisks you away to discuss a business opportunity.

An incredible opportunity, he says. Once in a lifetime.

There is a man. Chilean, owns a chain of fried chicken restaurants, along the southwest. Peter is practically babbling, sounding like a lunatic, and when he finally calms down enough to properly explain, you balk somewhat at what he is suggesting. 

It’s audacious, hubristic, and downright insane. You should know this, but a force in you is gleeful at the sheer magnitude of what you are being invited into. It's insane, yes, but also one of the most clever and intelligent plans you’ve ever heard. It delights you, really. Not the logical and serious part of you, but the risk-taking, hungry piece of your soul you thought you had left in the group home. 

It’s perfect, Lydia. You’re one of the most senior players in Madrigal, you oversee the thousands of chemical and electronic shipments every day. It is practically built into your job! He says all this in garbled, tipsy german. 

The figures Peter is quoting seem deliciously tempting. It would be so easy, you agree. You suggest a meeting time and place, and Peter Schuler practically beams.

*

You can already tell it’s Italian Merino wool, in soft grey. Gustavo Fring’s suit is subtle, yet striking. Expensive, but not ostentatious. You feel an immediate affinity for the man, who is now turning around and shaking your hand. A good handshake, you note, unsurprised. It’s after hours at Madrigal, but you made sure to have Denise lay out coffee and a fruit and vegetable platter.

Ms. Rodarte-Quayle, he greets. A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. 

There is a slight lilt in his warm voice, and his smile is glowing. You unclasp hands, and he sits opposite you and Peter, ready to discuss business.

If you thought Peter had been reasonable, Gustavo Fring lays out his carefully orchestrated plans as if it were a simple franchise expansion. By the time he is finished, you are 100% involved. There’s a palpable feeling of something in the room, and had you been any less of a professional, you would have called it giddiness, but instead settle on anticipatory. 

You couldn’t help but feel a heady mix of awe and anxiousness. Helping to secure a monopoly on methamphetamine production in the US Southwest was not a task for the faint of heart, perhaps for the ruthless alone. But you could sense that at the core of it all was the business. The simple numbers, the act of moving a product from A to B - it was your speciality. 

You remain in close contact with Fring for the guts of two years, helping to iron out the kinks in the plan from your end. Eventually, everything was ready. Premises was the only outstanding issue. It’s a delicate game, emailing industrial property locations back and forth, meetings in hotel rooms, hushed phone conversations. The underground component is, of course, a factor that needed to be taken into account. 

The Lavanderia Brillante industrial laundry was the perfect location. You make the journey out to Albuquerque to facilitate a viewing. Fring inspects the place, and gives a verdict upon getting back into the Audi.

It could work, he muses.

You know it will, but if he wants to play a long game, so be it. This plan will come to fruition one way or another. 

*

You are asked for a favour. 

One of Gus’s guys needs a paper trail. Money needs to be cleaned, and you know exactly what to do. Security consultants are not uncommon in the corporate world, and slipping him into the Madrigal payroll is ludicrously easy, although he does not seem to agree. Michael Ehrmantruaut sits across from you, a tall older man, with a rumbling, authoritative voice. He makes his concerns known, and you placate him, explaining the basics of what was happening. It was a paper transaction, nothing more. Eventually, he signs off, but asks you a peculiar question - why you would risk your job for a “drug dealer”.

You are now certain this man does not know Gustavo Fring well at all, to make this kind of evaluation. 

He is much, much more than a drug dealer.

*

The plush beige and cream colouring of Peter’s hotel suite create a warm, calming atmosphere, the sheepskin rug underfoot a luxurious and delicate touch. You are pacing, while Peter sits across from you in an armchair, robed and slumped with fatigue. 

There has been...a problem.

The Salamanca man ordered his men to burn down a Pollos location. You had thought his arrest would mean construction at Lavanderia Brillante would continue, but even from prison, he makes problems.

You think this could be a blessing in disguise. A suitable opportunity to get rid of him once and for all, in an environment where such an incident would be exceedingly common. What did one say? Shanked, shivved, and whatnot?

You voice this, and Gus tells of a cartel war. Metaphorical hellfire raining down should the man come to any sort of harm this side of the border. 

Peter stirs, lamenting over the money already poured into this operation. About how close the auditors came, how he cannot get caught, the weeks that were needed turning into years. Gus soothes and conciliates, in that abating tone, reminding Peter of some incident or other in Santiago. You look on with both veneration and apprehension. Peter would do well to continue as normal and continue quietly. You all have not come this far to fall at the last hurdle. This reassuring speech seems to appease Peter, and your breath leaves your lungs in a shaky exhale.

You pour out champagne into crystal flutes, idly making plans to take Peter to a rodeo, keep him in good spirits, from second guessing Gus’s reassurement tonight. You hand the man a flute, and he takes it, eyes unfocused, mind elsewhere. 

* 

Panic floods your body when you receive the news.

You’re coming back from Amsterdam, standing in the middle of the waiting area in Pier C at Schiphol when your cell phone rings. You’re already irritated by the flight delay - really, can these people not understand the simple principle of punctuality? Punctuality dictates the day-to-day of your life. Without it, things do not get from A to B like they are supposed to and your credibility as Madrigal’s Head of Logistics is threatened. If you don’t get back on time, it will reflect poorly on you, your dedication, and the company image that is painstakingly curated for the shareholders, a delayed plane be damned.

Deep breaths. Count to ten.

It’s currently 12:57 in Houston, TX - long past business hours. If they’re calling this late it must be important enough to surpass professionalism. You take yet another deep breath and answer the Blackberry. 

“He’s…

When did this happen?

How on _earth?_ ”

Oh God. Oh God. _Oh God._

You end the call, resisting the urge to scream, biting down hard on your knuckle.

Gustavo Fring. Blown up by an invalid in a nursing home. The Salamanca. If he couldn’t keep his head above water, what hope was there for everyone else?

You sit down on one of the hard plastic seats, for once not even caring about the discomfort. You are in damage control mode. Shock and the gentle ebbs of grief that flow in you are pushed aside for now. You are making a list of anything, anyone involved in Gus’ operation that could be traced back to you or the Madrigal Electromotive warehouse you preside over. You come up with them quickly - it's not as if you haven’t planned for this possibility, of course. You trust that Gus would never pass on your name to anyone you hadn’t met with, a courtesy you provided likewise. 

You are still hyperventilating stepping on the plane back to Houston.

*

The meeting has been going on for over an hour and a half now. The agents are sly, but Madrigal’s attorneys are quick on the uptake. Neither side has displayed any give. Thankfully, the DEA have not arrived at any significant conclusion, merely that Peter Schuler and Gustavo Fring were business associates. What they do not know about, is your status as the hidden third party. This is good. This gives you time to get to Mike Ehrmantraut, hand over the names you came up with and be rid of this messy affair. You’re not stupid. You know Gustavo Fring was a diamond in the rough, and you are unlikely to find a professional of his ilk in this business again. Better to cut your losses and get out while you can.

Mike Ehrmantraut is not pleased to hear from you. Putting aside the impossibility of understanding the inner thoughts of someone like Mike, you suppose you wouldn’t be either. You decide to meet at a small, out of the way diner. You or anyone who would know you would not be seen dead in this place, but you are still nervous. You need this done as soon as possible.

He’s already sitting down, a paper in hand. You sit back to back, in these terrible green booths, the leather sticky and worn. It’s warm in the building, steam rising from a kettle behind the countertop. This is the last place on earth you want to be, but you grit your teeth and bear with it. 

They don’t have chamomile tea. Fine, you ask for some sort of bergamot then, provided it’s not Earl Grey, with soy milk instead of dairy - it’s never agreed with you.

The waitress looks at you as if you’ve just asked her for a glass of water from Mars.

This is getting ridiculous - it’s not bad enough you have to meet here in the first place, now this waitress is running you completely through your options. You vocalise this, to which she replies that they only carry some brand named “Liptons”, not even English Breakfast. You finally settle for a cup of filtered hot water and a slice of lemon, your confidence that Stevia will be available now as null as the chances of receiving a chamomile tea, and you make no secret of this to the waitress, who walks away just as Mike asks which one of you is moving.

You prefer discretion, and tell him to talk like this, back to back.

He ignores your request, and slides into the seat in front of you. Your anxiousness must be fairly palpable, as he advises you to take a breath. Calm is the one thing you cannot guarantee, and you fumble through a fabricated exchange as the waitress comes back with your hot water and lemon. She evidently knows Mike, and your performance is futile. You take off your glasses and coat, take a sip of your drink and ask the burning question.

Who killed Gus?

Mike dismisses, tells you not to worry, but you know better than to assume your safety in this business without first guaranteeing it. You take the list out and hand it to Mike. You explain to him that these men are a liability. They were on Gus’ payroll, they were connected to Pollos, to Madrigal, and you have no doubt in your mind that when the time comes, they will fold. One of them or all of them, it doesn’t really matter. There is always a weak link.

You want me to kill every man on that list?

Leave it to Mike to state the vulgarity without the nuance. Essentially, yes, that is what you want him to do. It is you or them, and when it comes down to it, you are no Mother Teresa. Your heart does not bleed for these strangers. 

You inform him of the leap he has just made. You are, after all in a public place, and whatever you may have just implied, it must be only that. An implication. You will leave it in Mike’s hands to turn it into something more than that.

You’re scared, aren’t you, he asks, point blank.

You don’t try to deny it. You are terrified. Your daughter cannot grow up without her mother, Madrigal cannot survive the ruination of being exposed as the fulcrum of Gustavo Fring’s meth empire.

Mike fruitlessly tries to reassure you that “his guys” are solid, that they won’t bend. You remind him of Chow, who he already had to shoot, of Dennis in the laundry. They may well be solid, top form guys outside, but inside an interrogation room, everything could change in an instant.

He asks you to confirm that you understand. And you do. You understand that there is some ridiculous code amongst Mike and his men, and however much money they are being paid, that could all be taken away from them at any minute. Mike might owe these men. You do not. You will get this done before it is too late.

**Author's Note:**

> i love lydia so much she lives in my mind rent free.


End file.
